Oui, Mam'selle
by rangerbagel
Summary: Following the tragic events at the Opera, a romanticized-version of the Phantom flees to New York during the Progressive Era. Though he wishes to brood, life seeps into him and he finds his best lessons in women. From whores and an unusual idol to the working class, he begins to learn of a world beyond his fallen Angel. - Melancholy, sex, history, and OCs. (postponed)
1. Chapter 1

It was 1910 and the blare of a boat's horn rang out over the smoke and lights of New York city.

Fall leaves blew and crunched under boots and heels. The gentleman strolled casually, a lazy melancholy to his steps.

Indeed, he had been a Phantom. He'd grown and brooded in exile beneath the opera. Yet, in just a short time, he was exiled from exile, forced to flee with nothing but a broken heart and a long-buried bag of gold. The Phantom always had tricks, he thought to himself.

The white leather of the half mask didn't itch him that evening. The air was cool, the first cool evening signaling the conclusion of summer.

Sailing to the new world offered him time to write, to compose the swan song of his heart. In the night the scrawled notes seemed to sound off, swirling around the room and invading his sleep. It whispered into his dreams... _Christine_...

He'd wake with a start and reflexively clamp a hand over the side of his face that terrorized him. Relief would swell in him to find the room dark and devoid of an audience squealing at his monstrous appearance.

He walked into the wind. The jacket of his tuxedo had silk facings and a shawl collar. His bowtie was so white it almost sparkled. He had been self conscious about the exposure of his mask under the narrow brim of his top-hat, but an alternative garnered equally curious looks. New York society around the Central Park had specific standards of fashion, and The Phantom's sense of class overwhelmed his discomfort. He was a self-made gentleman.

The heels of his gleaming shoes and the end of his black cane clicked along the street as he walked. Gentlemen and Ladies strolled by or climbed into cars and cabs. The Americans poured out of a nearby theater, indicating the end of the third act, a curious habit of the upper class. However, the Phantom withheld his judgment, having seen the abortion on stage they called a play.

He walked into the evening, as he often did, wandering and wondering. For years he'd waited. He'd groomed and adored his bride as she grew into a winged angel ready for flight. But, in the end, she abandoned him for a man who didn't feign murder and attacks with the tricks of a master magician. He'd been born into darkness, and while he protected Christine from it, her preserved purity made their union impossible. Her wings beat him like fists.

All he could do was let her go.

Months passed slowly and he adjusted even more slowly. She still haunted him. Her voice came to him in the night, waking him with tragedy and desire, sweat clinging to him and his member aching with grief.

To torture himself, he lost his virginity to a whore. She was new, sweet, peaceful. The brothel was too warm, but the ladies were lovely. They lounged in haute couture, which made him feel more at home. But the anxiety swelled within him still. The ladies held their breath as he passed them, assessing him. He couldn't tell if they were intrigued or afraid.

But a thin young woman, probably no more than nineteen, reposed at the bar sipping a digestif. Her gown was daring, high-waisted satin in light green, off the shoulder with a sparkling train. She was freckled with a thick fire of hair.

She looked nothing like Christine.

So he offered her his arm, his heart pounding with terror. Her mouth parted slightly, surprise and anticipation on her face. Her eyes traced the contours of the mask. He had difficulty looking into her eyes. They were so wide and consuming.

They found their room. She took his hands with her thin, white fingers. Her eyes probed him, but she spoke no words. She waited for his direction.

But, alas, he knew not what to say. After minutes passed silently she led him to the bed herself. She lifted the hem of her dress and let him watch her slip off her slippers. His mouth ran dry. He coughed.

She looked up. "What would like, sir? What would please you?" She sounded sincere and convincing.

Finally, he asked himself the same question, _What would please me?_

"Call me Erik." He replied.

She giggled, "Yes, Monsieur Erik." Her pronunciation was impressive. He betrayed a small smile.

He resigned to the fact that he hated himself, but found suicide to bet. The Phantom Erik was never lazy. So he'd got on with the torture, the pain of living without her.

With his eyes focused he said, "Stay there." The whore nodded and reposed, breath held.

In moments he stripped. Before her he stood naked. She examined him with subtle lust. _Was she sincere?_ he wondered. It didn't matter.

He was strong and fit, and the mask was a startling accessory to his handsomeness - the contrast sharp, from his black hair and icy stare to the saturated whiteness.

He walked to her, and grabbed her by the waist. "Undress," he commanded.

In moments she complied and they stood there naked together. He gazed down at her small body - narrow hips and small breasts.

He picked her up effortlessly and placed her gently on the bed.

"Erik..." she whispered. He was startled. She'd begun to seem a perfect doll to him. Her voice made her real and he felt his member stiffen slightly. His anxiety began to mount.

"Yes?" He asked the girl.

"I'm glad you chose me." She smiled softly as she laid back onto the ornate satin duvet.

He blinked, "Are you required to say that?"

She pursed her lips. "No. We often enjoy our work." He waited, not understanding her point. She gathered it. "I know the other girls wanted you, too..."

He didn't believe her. He contemplated dressing and leaving. But she reached out for him and ran a hand up his arm.

"Please..." she whispered. "I'm not lying." With great hesitation he climbed into bed beside her.

She leaned over to kiss his mouth. She smelled pleasant and her lips were soft. It was nothing like the piteous kisses he'd shared with Christine.

The girl pushed him onto his back, "Will this please you, Monsieur Erik?" She looked down.

He nodded, having decided to keep his virginity a secret. She squeezed him gently and he fully hardened. Without ceremony she eased onto him, slowly welcoming him into her. As he adjusted to the clenching tightness of her, he remarked on how quickly and how easily his virtue vanished.

She rode him slowly and intensely. He came again and again, having her in each position he dreamed of. She squealed as he pounded her, called his name, and shuddered in climaxes of her own.

_Was her pleasure real?_ he continued to ask himself. But his desire for her drove him. And finally, after he was too exhausted to ravish her further, they climbed under the duvet, heaving.

She looked up into his eyes and scooted into his arms.

"Does this please you, Monsieur Erik?" She asked as she snuggled close to him.

He squeezed her slightly. Whatever she truly felt about him, he resolved, he would never know. But those hours with her felt something like satisfaction... something like peace. And he would savor the memories of her skin, her pink mouth and wet tongue, the soft red curls on her head, and the heat within her that had been so consuming.

Would he see her again? It would be so easy...

"_Does this please you, Monsieur Erik?_"

He sighed and held her, noting how he'd failed to torture himself. Feeling the sweat on his brow cool he breathed in her perfume and whispered, "Oui, mam'selle... Oui."


	2. Chapter 2

It was morning. The morning after. _Am I truly a man now? _he asked himself as he sat at a small table in his room, gazing out at a gray day several blocks from the Central Park. He could see a congregation of people near its entrance in a huddle. Signs rose and the crowd spread.

_ Long live the Republic_, The Phantom thought. He let the curtain fall back against the window and moved downstairs for breakfast.

Hiring a maid and a cook had been a terrifying experience. But first he had arrived. It required an extensive amount of interpersonal contact to secure his funds and investments and endure the process of looking for a home. But, as he'd discovered yet again just the night before, wherever he expected suffering he found light.

The sun was up. He'd planned to leave during the day. It was a rare activity even after months in this new land.

Mary, the maid, smiled to see him and flushed a little. For two weeks the Phantom had wondered if hiring her had been a mistake. She had a certain innocent curiosity that worried him and his secrecy. But he found in time that she was quite reliable, respectful, with a sweet Irish brogue.

"Did you sleep well, sir?" She asked as she placed a hard-boiled egg and a small plate of fruit in front of him. He'd been surprised to find that her gentleness was more comfortable for him than the appropriate servant formality.

The cook, Martha, was a handsome and tall woman. Her references indicated classical French training, but her previous employer never ate meat. Her cuisines featured a wonderful array of fruits and vegetables, fragrant rice, rich beans and legumes, and marvelously elaborate desserts.

He had a brief fantasy of having _his _delicate redhead sit across from him enjoying one of Martha's astounding cream puffs. The thought made him stiffen briefly and blush. That would never be. He would never see her again...

Or would he?

After his pleasant breakfast he donned a bowler, smoothed a hand over his mask, and stepped out into the morning. A cab rumbled by. He hailed it.

The first time he'd hailed a cab had been terrifying. But like all things, it passed.

_ Christine_...

It was like a whisper on his neck and it made him gag just slightly. The thought of having her near tightened his chest. He would have never imagined that he would want to forget her.

The wind picked up as the cab rolled on, its engine humming on electricity. He arrived in front of a gilded-looking shop. A boy was scrubbing the windows as the Phantom walked in.

Pianos, pianos everywhere! He walked long steps throughout the room feeling high on the sweet smell of wood oil and lacquer. He knew not how he would chose.

"May I help you, good sir?" A short man with a shiny bald head rang his hands to the left. When he turned to notice the mask he hesitated, not sure what to say.

The Phantom stood up tall, puffing up slightly. He'd not fully prepared himself to interact with a salesman, but had been consumed with the loving lust he felt for a new piano...or two... He could put a forte in his bedroom to play for guests and – Wait - What was he thinking? Playing for guests? In his bedroom!? Would he call it his _boudoir _when speaking to American ladies? Did he think himself a suave seducer after one night with a whore?

He flushed as the little man waited.

"I want a grand piano." He said coolly. The man nodded, dollar signs chiming into his eyeballs. The Phantom's smooth looks and white mask cut a romantic figure in the shop, surrounded by fine carpets and elaborate candelabras.

"I think..." The man began, "that a piano should match its master..." He led them into a room off of the main showing area.

There it sat. There it waited. It was black. It was entirely black. The white keys were a shocking contrast and the warm interior wood and gold strings were stunningly dramatic. Each bit of it was gloriously carved, sculpted with fetishistic precision. The pedal lyre matched the obsessive scalloping and tapering of the legs. The music rack featured precise ivy leaves dark as the night sea. And, oh, how it shone. It brooded in black. It flirted in black.

"That's a glorious black lacquer. It's a bit unusual and quite special... It's a Fischer Parlor Grand Piano. The lacquer is hand-rubbed to a nice satin finish. Please, if you find it as beautiful as I do, I implore you to sit. The seat is most supple, but the keys are a glory. Ah, the ivory! It's flawless."

The Phantom shared no words, but sat. The little man's buzzing melted away. The feel of the keys was almost obscene. Their smoothness was dizzying. But the sound... The sound... It simply resonated. It reverberated in his chest. He needed only to play a few notes to feel an extremely private catharsis. But the little salesman appeared completely unaware of the intimate exaltation rolling through the man in the mask.

"I want it." he concluded.

"Wonderful!" the little man regarded. "I am so pleased. I have an eye for these things, you know." He tapped his temple and for the first time the Phantom realized the man's left eye was glass. Not only that, but what appeared to be an emerald resided in the place of iris. How decadent.

"We must discuss cost reasonably." The Phantom asserted. The salesman's face fell slightly. He knew it a grave thing to bargain with a man in a mask.

The piano cost nearly as much as his new home. But it was worth so much more. He would've slept under it if forced to choose.

For eight days he remained at home. He remained in the parlor, the home of the piano, of the keys, of the music, of the peace, and the melancholy. He played and played. He wrote and wrote. The room was littered with papers, some crumpled, some carefully arranged on tables. Fires had roared and crackled to his moods.

By the fourth day Mary had become increasingly concerned. Her face was full of pity and worry. He'd ignored any of her questions at first. No, he did not want her to draw a bath. No, he did not want her to bring tea. No, he did not want her to dress the chaise with blankets and pillows. He wanted all of those things, and none of them.

He couldn't leave the piano. He couldn't leave until he was finished. But with what he did not know.

"Sir?" Mary called cautiously as she held a tray with fruit and eggs. She was ever so cautious the last two days. He knew she heard him cry. He had cried when he found himself inadvertently playing to _Christine_... Her songs. Late at night or in the early morning when he was near collapse, he would slip into dreams with his fingers still moving. He would tremble and the notes would conjure themselves from within his wounds. He sobbed. He sobbed fully.

Mary heard him. He could read it all over her face the next morning. He became even more reserved, avoiding even her gaze.

"Sir?" She called again. This was unusual, her calling to him like this. He ignored her more fully. Finally she moved. She walked toward the table where she left his meals to get cold in order to lay down what would be another ignored tray.

Unfortunately, her dear master had abandoned his shoes just beneath it and out of sight. She stumbled quite perfectly, letting the tea and milk fly off the tray and onto his notes.

He cried out. It wasn't in anger. It wasn't in frustration. It was agony. It was like pain. It was one true moan, a yawp from the wound. He wilted in the seat, his elbow hitting the keys with a _Prrrraaahhhnng._

"Oh my sweet lord!" Mary set the tray on the ground and immediately set to mopping up the liquid from the papers. "Oh my lord, sir, sir..." tears ran down her cheeks. "Sir, my dear sir, I am so sorry. So sorry. Oh please. Oh please, no." She rambled as she mopped. The tears came thicker and hotter as the ink ran.

Erik remained, reposed. He watched the papers swell and the dark marks turn to blobs. _Is this what it means to be dead?_He wondered. But then he lifted his eyes from the papers. Mary still busied herself, abusing and cursing herself, atoning and confessing herself. She hiccupped and cried, sniveling and whimpering. She blew on the notes, desperately hoping to save even a part of a page. But they were doomed. She apologized and begged. She seemed to grieve for the art. He knew what it meant to grieve.

Before he thought about it he'd pulled himself from the seat. He'd traveled across the room. And Mary was in his arms. She sobbed into his shoulder for a moment. Then they both realized where they were and who they were with. Mary's tears stopped. Her hiccupping stopped. She stilled herself and looked up into his face timidly.

Erik felt her heave against him. She was so warm.

"Sir..." she began cautiously, "I am so sorry..."  
He shushed her. "Thank you for bringing my breakfast. Everyday. Thank you."

Her eyes trembled. This was not what she'd expected him to say, he could tell. When she relaxed and accepted that he was not cross, she stepped away. She wiped her face and rang her hands in front of her.

"You wanted to tell me something?" He walked back to the table, ignoring the papers and paying attention to the delicious fruit. He wondered if he'd actually eaten in days. He couldn't remember.

Mary coughed, "I thought you... I thought you might like this..." She removed a piece of paper from her apron pocket. It was folded in half. She left it so and placed it into his hands. "Will... Will you..." She stopped and took a deep breath. "Will you like lunch today? Martha suggested Vichyssoise... Would that suit you, sir? Today?" Her eyes were so big and hopeful Erik found it difficult not to squeeze her close again.

But he just sighed, imagined the delicious cold soup, and replied, "Oui... mam'selle..."

When Mary left the room, Erik took to the chaise. But she was back just as quickly with fresh tea, milk, biscuits, butter, honey, and more fruit. He couldn't help but laugh.

"You and Martha take wonderful care of me," He drank the tea earnestly. Mary beamed back and nodded before taking her leave. "I think I'd be lost without you," he called quietly after the door shut.

After eating, Erik turned his attention to the paper. He unfolded it to find an advertisement. It was written in big black letters:

ONE NIGHT ONLY

**ABIGAIL ARCHER AND HER BAND**

SPECIAL PERFORMANCE 8PM TONIGHT

**8PM TONIGHT ONLY**

CHARLIE'S PUBLIC HOUSE

WHO KNOWS WHEN SHE'LL PLAY AGAIN!

Erik smirked. He wondered why his little Mary would give him this advertisement. See a woman play music at a pub? Mary wasn't exactly worldly, but he didn't think she'd consider this an apt place for him to visit. The Phantom was not exactly a man for _ale_, _beer_, rough company, and boozy clattering noise that such company called music.

But the thought intrigued him. Special performance? One night only? Who knows when she'll play again?

Mary was wise and perceptive, he recalled. She had known what it meant to ruin those pages of music. That was part of why he couldn't be angry with her. Somehow, she'd developed a good sense of him. Somehow she'd come to know him, if but a little.

Erik set to cleaning up the parlor. He wouldn't torture Mary's nerves by asking her to do it. When he was finished it was time for his soup.

"What would you like for dinner, sir?" Martha asked when he came down to thank her. He'd felt some guilt over his rejection of her meals, so he meant to make amends.

He mulled the question over, "I'm not sure. You're the magician." He giggled to himself. "But, make it early, around six this evening. I plan to go out." Martha's eyebrows rose and she smiled. Erik spotted Mary steal a happy glance. She seemed to float out of the room to her work. Tonight, by her help, he would go back out into the world.


	3. Chapter 3

Charlie's Public House was several blocks from Erik's home. He left shortly before seven, electing to walk. When he arrived, the street was buzzing. The noise within the place had feeling; it vibrated the building.

So many faces in caps. So many hands with dirty fingernails. The workers of the city converged on the local bar. Erik was relieved to have dressed down in a simple suit. A tuxedo would've been remarkably ostentatious and he was already self conscious about the looks he received from women and young men in the crowd. Cool, youthful eyes sweep across his features and would linger on the white mask.

The pub was spacious, more spacious than he would have expected. The floor was thick-planked wood, as was the bar. Both were worn and warm-toned from years of beers and fun. Photographs and posters mounted to the walls with wheat paste provided a history to the place. Men lined up for portraits, women stood tight-mouthed for the photographer. Candidates, pharmacists, and shop owners illustrated the advertisements around the walls. And behind the bar ran a long clouded mirror.

A single stool remained at the end of the bar near the stage. Erik approached it. He arrived at it in congress with a young grizzled man. He turned to stare down the Phantom, to demand the seat for himself. But his face relaxed and his eyes registered confusion at the tall man, clean shaven, well dressed, and sporting a jarring white half-mask. The young man relinquished the seat.

Erik took it and turned to order a drink.

"You seem out of place." The Phantom turned his head toward a thin old man sipping on a pint.

"I do?" Erik asked.

"That's a fine suit. And a fine mask. You a gentleman?" He took another drink.

"I doubt it." Erik adjusted himself.

The old man laughed. "Well, good thing. Gentlemen have no fun at Charlie's."

"What can I get ya?" The bartender had moved toward the pair.

Erik was unsure of what to have in such a place. He looked at the dark liquid the old man drank earnestly. "I'll have what he's having," he responded.

"An ale it is," the bartender replied. He poured and slid the glass to the man in the mask. Erik took a suspicious sip and immediately fell in love.

"This is very good. Thank you." He took a true gulp. The old man laughed, finished his ale, and ordered another.

"You here to see Abigail, too?" The man asked.

"It seems so..." He was uncomfortable with the conversation, but he did not want to lose such a good seat. He'd become used to having a unique position overlooking the stage. At one time he'd had a box all to himself. Now he had a stool, an ale, and an old man.

"I'm Robert." The old man extended his hand. Erik hesitated and then shook it.

"I'm Erik," he replied to the bar top.

"The bartender here is Charlie himself." Robert pointed as Charlie poured beer for two young ladies and their escort.

"Welcome," Charlie replied without looking.

"It seems handing out those advertisements have really done the trick!" Robert wiped his mouth.

"Who is she?" Erik whispered.

"Oh! She's an odd one all right," he laughed. "She's upscale, like you. She's from those old families, you know?"

"And a musician in a pub," Erik smirked. He found himself increasingly pessimistic about the evening. An upper-class lady descended on the working class to sing drawing-room ballads or bawdy limericks. He found her contemptible, feigning personal democracy.

"What do they pay her here?" Erik asked.

"Oh we don't pay," Charlie answered instead of Robert. "She's a queer one. She likes to come in and play."

"She always comes along with different people and different instruments. She had an Indian with some kind of flute last month and a Chink with one o' those whiny guitars with a bow." Robert mimed the movement of bow against strings. He continued. "It was beautiful, actually. It was the damndest thing. She just comes to play."

"She came in about a year ago and asked if she could play the piano," Charlie wiped the bar. "I said okay, because, heck, it was a pretty slow night and a pretty lady playing piano would be a nice change." He leaned on the bar. "But let me tell you, she sure surprised the hell out of me."

"She knows old Ozark songs." Robert interrupted.

"And she knows Irish tunes" Charlie continued. "She can sing you a song from damn-near anywhere."

"And she writes her own songs, too," Robert added. "She plays a guitar and sings sad songs, like _The Mother with a Broken Wing._It'll bring a tear to your eye."

"Sometimes the girls around here get blubbery over it," Charlie laughed.

"So she's very popular?" Erik asked.

"I'd say so. People started asking when she and her band would come back next. But I could never say. She'd arrive without warning and just ask to play." He poured another ale. "Finally, though, I got her to give me a day's notice. 'Call me in the morning' I said. And you know, the last three times, she has."

"Must be good for business," Erik sipped.

"I have to admit things weren't going so great around here. It was pretty dead most of the time. Maybe that's why she liked it. She's not so happy to have people come up to her after shows."

"She's a shy type." Robert added.

"She hands out soup every Sunday now," a boy interjected.

"She does?" Robert asked.

"Aye, yeah. She comes down with her own servants and gives out soup and bread - and sometimes sausages. She really filled me up when I broke my fingers under the press and lost pay. Then she got me better work in gardens."

Charlie, Robert, and the boy talked further about the woman set to play in thirty minutes. "One of my cousins is a maid in her house," the boy added.

"Really, Dick? You never said that before." Robert said.

"Well I thought I did. You been drinkin' too much!" Dick and Charles had a laugh at the old man's expense. But Robert didn't seem to mind.

"Well, Dick," Charlie continued, "Maybe you ought'a tell the gentleman about her. He seems curious." He wiped down the bar and walked away.

Dick shifted his gaze to the Phantom. His eyes bulged for a moment. He was a beautiful youth, slim with black hair and cool blue eyes. His face seemed familiar, as did his Irish brogue, which was subtle and northern.

"Call me Dick... Mr..." Dick tipped his head.

"Gravois" he lied. It had become an easy lie. "Please call me Erik." Though maybe not. The Phantom extended his hand. The boy met it with his. Two of his fingers felt crooked.

"Well, my cousin is one o'the maids in Mrs. Archer's house." He sat down and ate a peanut from a bowl on the bar. "She says she's a real quiet type. She reads and works all the time and hardly goes out unless she's spoonin' soup or somethin' else kind like. She don't go to parties much like other rich folks, but she goes out to concerts and the like."

"Who is she?" Erik asked.

"Well, she was born a Middleton, I think. That's what my sister said."

"They're a very rich family," Robert added.

"I say they are." Dick continued, "And so was her husband, Mr. Archer. He was in law or somethin' like that." He took a sip of a beer Charlie poured for him. "But then a long time ago, before my cousin worked there, he choked on a peach pit and died."

"How unfortunate..." Erik mumbled.

"Well, as I heard it," Robert interjected, "He weren't very nice."

"I'd say not," Dick continued. "She's not the cheerful type, like the other ladies that spoon soup on the street. She just pours and smiles. Pours and smiles."

"And then she comes here," Erik stated.

"Lucky for us!" Robert grinned. Erik noted he was missing three teeth on the left side of his smile. "Now!" He continued, "You're out of ale, friend, let's get some hair on your chest!"

The men chatted and drank, the room filling to saturation.

"Do you have other family in service?" Erik asked the boy.

"Sure do!" Dick grinned. "They all want girls workin' inside, but now I take care of gardens thanks to Mrs. Archer." He wiped his mouth. "My cousin Maggie works for her. My other cousin Meara works for the Lefferts family. They're not so rich, but they make like it. Still, she gets good wages." He popped another peanut in his mouth. "And then there's my little sister." He smiled broadly at the Phantom. "My sister Mary works for you, sir, if I'm not mistaken."

Erik blinked. He saw it then, the resemblance between this handsome boy and his shy maid. He felt the corner of his mouth tug upward into a small smile. Dick's eyes never wavered, the mischief in them palpable.

"She informed me of this performance," he stated softly.

"I know she did. She told me so." He popped another peanut in his mouth. "But don't you worry, sir," he added, noting the serious look that washed over the free side of the Phantom's face. "She knows you gotta keep your lips tight when in service. You can't go gossipin' to everybody or you'll get sacked."

Erik looked at the groves in the wood of the bar. "She's a fine young woman" he announced over the din of the crowd. Dick smiled and tipped his hat.

Conversations flowed and ebbed like the smoke hanging above the crowd.

"Did'ya hear they say ironworkers done the bombin' out west? The fuckin' union!"

"Twenty one dead they say."

"Leeches, I tell ya."

"Burnin'. Worst way to die."

"Nobody respects the workers."

"Damn scabs make me sick."

Then everything hushed. Lights shut off around the room and the stage lit up. Candles littered the remaining tables. People stood against the walls. Some girls sat on the laps of their escorts, and some particularly young listeners sat on the floor below the apron of the stage.

Charlie had fashioned a curtain over the stage, red velvet, though likely of cotton. It seemed almost lush in the golden light. The Phantom relaxed into his seat. He could hear instruments strummed and checked, strings tightened and screws loosened. He heard a drum and a tisk tisk tisk.

Tisk tisk tisk. The subtle beat continued until the crowd had grown fully quiet. All that could be heard was the clinking of glasses, the sloshing of liquid, and the tisk tisk tisk coming from behind the curtain.

A few long moments passed and a cello joined the tisk tisk tisk. With ebb and flow it supplemented the beat. A few whistles and claps lofted above the smoke. Then the curtain ruffled and a bespectacled man of about 30 stepped onto the stage. A chorus of laughter and cheers greeted him.

He bowed twice very dramatically. "Thank you, thank you!" He held up his hand, "You've been a wonderful crowd, goodnight!" And he turned around and ruffled the curtain again.

No's and whistles and laughter slapped him on the back. He paused and spun around. "Now that's more like it." He rang his hands. "Ladies, gentleman, and everything in between..." chuckles interrupted. "tonight we've come together once again to enjoy the musical wonder that is Abigail Archer and her Mismatched band!"

The crowd erupted. People stomped their feet and cheered. Girls lofted out of laps and men swung their caps. The Phantom scanned them all, noting the dirty fingernails even in the dim light. But their smiles gleamed and reflected. They sparkled like the empty pint glasses.

"And, oh, ladies and gents, we have a spectacular mismatch tonight! All the way from San Francisco we have the string quartet of Miles, Heart, Walker, and Simms." The crowd cheered the unknown performers. "We also have the St. Francis girl's choir, and the ever-loved guitarist from down South, Gerald Thomas! And me? I am William Thalberg, singer and joker extraordinaire" With that people lept from their seats to applaud the man the Phantom was anxious to see. He was anxious to see them all. But of course...

"And of course.. we would not be here without our leading lady, the songbird of Charlie's Public House, and the owner of my heart..." He squeezed his chest and sighed to the cheers of the crowd. "Hoot and holler for Mrs. Abigail Archer!" He clapped himself and the pub nearly shook with the cacophony. And with that the curtains opened.

A grizzled black man held an old worn guitar. Four lovely young girls stood behind the string quartet. An Indian man sat at the drums maintaining the tisk tisk tisk.

And then... She sat at a small piano forte. It was Italian and warm wood. Of course the Phantom noticed the beautiful instrument first. It was the lover who'd always remain with him.

But the woman was startling. Her hair was black, pitch black, and wildly untamed. Her eyes were just as dark, possessing an almost liquid quality. They glittered and were eery. It was as if she could see everything with the consuming pools that set far apart on her oval face. Her skin was smooth and bronzy; fair, but not pink like a Frenchwoman. Her nose was long and straight. Her lips were thin and red. She wore a green gown that scooped to the top of her ample breasts. She was covered, modest, but the color and the fit of that incredible green satin was almost obscene. Erik had to glance away and have a drink before returning his gaze to the musicians on stage.

They played for hours. Songs he knew and others he didn't. Country ballads moved the crowd. Bawdy songs from the Barbary Coast riled them up. The bespectacled host sang a love song that was punctuated by the great mass sigh of every girl in the room.

And Abigail played gently, stoically. Her fingers were hidden from his view, but he could almost feel them playing the melody up and down his spine; each note petting the valleys and peaks of each vertebra.

But her voice... He didn't realize it until she sang her first song that he'd been holding his breath waiting for her to start. For he was deeply terrified she'd be a soprano. But much to his elation, her voice was deep and velvet. She sang along to Broadway hits and old Irish lullabies. She stood up from behind the piano and stood to face the crowd. There with the guitarist and the gentle beat of a brush on drums she, the Indian, and the black man sang of a train, a field, a river, and freedom.

When it was all over, Erik's shirt was drenched in sweat. He heaved as if he'd been running. His face felt cold and stinging, the mask sticking more intensely than he was used to. It was like running through a cold forest with branches and twigs tearing at his face. But the mask clung on. It clung on as he clapped and even... cheered. He cheered as the girls, the men, and Mrs. Archer took humble bows and seemed immensely moved at the intense emotion of the crowd.

The curtain swept across the stage. It was like a wall, a wall between waking and dreaming. Erik exhaled and turned around to face the bar.

"Well, did that do it for you?" Robert asked, also sweating.

"It..." he began, not knowing how to continue, "It was so much more than I expected."

Robert laughed outright and slapped the Phantom on the back. Charlie walked over and offered them another drink. It was then Erik realized he was drunk. He wasn't dizzy or lost, but things seemed smoother, easier, more hazed. Perhaps it was a dream? Perhaps on the breeze of ale he'd traveled to a place deep in that forest where music goes to die and ascend to heaven for the angels to hear.

He laughed at himself and ordered another drink. Everything was always a chase, a game of cat and mouse, running and hiding. But here, oh here, he was there for all to see. He had no corner box to sit in, no shadows to snuggle in to.

Mary passed by him on the way to her brother. She said not a word, but her cheeks were flushed with drink and her lips were parted just slightly. She locked eyes with her employer. And in that dreamy moment she looked completely delicious. But the Phantom controlled himself. He nodded at her. "Thank you," he said. "I didn't know what I needed. But this was it." She grinned powerfully and he held out his glass to hers. They drank a toast to unity in Charlie's Public House.

Mary didn't say anything more. She stood next to her brother as he regaled their group with stories about the poor and stories about the rich. It seemed that his assurances to the Phantom about the security of his secrets was a little feigned. But Erik supposed that for wealthy people to be as ridiculous as Dick would have you believe, how could one not pontificate about it?

Did the Phantom feel upperclass? Upper crust? He was from beyond the sea, a foreigner. But a foreigner even in his own lands. The only home he'd ever truly known had been swirled with shadow. And now, out in the light, where did he fit? Does gold make a rich man? Or is it something else?

Beyond the money was _society_. Dick found the most folly in games the folk of society played; dancing around the truth, lying, cheating, and then referring to a chicken's "white meat" to spare themselves the embarrassment of asking those serving dinner to give them a nice juicy breast.

The thought of a juicy breast swung Erik's mind back around to the lady on stage. Every part of her had been truly appetizing. But where had she gone?"

"Where did she go, Dick?" Erik put forth special effort not to slur.

"Mrs. Archer you mean?" Dick blinked. The Phantom nodded. "Oh," he waved a hand. "She probably took the band home. She doesn't stay to drink, though I wish she would." He took a gulp from his glass. Mary blushed as another young man whispered something to her. The sight of that blush tightened something in Erik's chest. He'd enjoy making her blush.

With that final inappropriate thought, the Phantom vacated his stool. For a moment the room swirled. Robert clapped him on the back again, "I think our gentleman friend has had too much to drink!" He laughed heartily and Erik could see Robert was missing molars, too.

"I think..." he replied "that I have had just enough." He smiled. He took a glance at Mary and tried to caress her with a smooth look. Much to his elation she blushed and looked away.

"Well, I hope you'll come back again, sir," Charlie nodded.

"I am certain I shall." He bowed before sweeping his eyes across the group that had adopted him for the evening. He leaned over the bar and signaled for Charlie to lean in. "Have these people maintained a tab?" He asked.

"Sure have," Charlie answered, his eyebrow cocked. "I don't trust many for it, but you and these ones are alright." He wiped the bar.

"Good. I'd like to take care of it." He reached into his coat pocket.

Charlie blinked. "For all of them?" He glanced at the group which now numbered six, including himself.

"Yes, of course." He pulled out his wallet and paid the man. Does gold make a rich man? The Phantom smiled.

He urged Charlie not to tell them he'd taken care of the tab until he left. He said his goodbyes and thank yous and made his way for the door.

He stepped out into the cool autumn evening. Or was it morning yet? It did not matter. He turned the corner away from home. This night, this morning, was too beautiful to be alone. So he set aside it all, save for the music and the cheers, and walked to the house with windows that shone red.

When he arrived he felt underdressed. It frustrated him a moment, and he felt common. He stopped at the first step and hated himself for such a thought. Though he wore no tuxedo, he was still the same man. Surely they would recognize the mask. And, really, what would they have to say if he presented them with sufficient money?

They would smile, accept it, glance over his attire, make an internal joke, and then lead him into the main room to find company.

So that's just what he did. The hostess recognized him and greeted him warmly. She was ever so happy to see him back.

Was his redhead there? He scanned the room and saw no such girl. He frowned and asked for water from the bartender. He drank it and glanced around at the other ladies. Could he choose a different girl? And who?

Around him were women of all styles: tall, petite, slim, curvaceous, young, and seasoned. He was beginning to sober up, but the smell of perfume and the overwhelming choices made him feel dizzy. That's when he noticed the eyes upon him. The girls waited for him to choose. And, oddly, he felt wanted. Does gold make a man handsome?

Then there she was. She sashayed up to the bar in a cream dress made of silk. She was startling. He'd never seen skin so black. It was smooth and perfect. It reminded him of his luxurious piano. He thought about walking his fingers up and down her spine, playing a tune upon her body. Her breasts and bottom were round, her hips slim, and she was nearly as tall as he was. Her hair was thick and shiny, her eyes incredibly large and focused. He walked up to her. She never lost his gaze. She played no shyness like his redhead. She was something entirely different. His legs felt like jelly as she equally assessed him.

"Good evening," he practically whispered.

"Good evening..." she purred. He couldn't place her accent, but he knew she was American. "I've seen you here once. You chose Beatrice."

He smiled, "So that is her name. I feel terrible that I did not ask." He looked away. The dark queen laughed softly. He looked up, "I shall not make the mistake again. What is your name?" He held out his hand. She took it, her fingers slim and long, the nails smooth and pink.

"Angela..." She raised an eyebrow, "However, I have been known to elicit moans of 'Ebony' with my many nightly talents." She leaned forward and smiled mischievously, lighting up the room with her spectacularly white teeth.

She stepped away from the bar. "May I have the pleasure of you?"

He took a deep breath, "Absolutely."

She smiled and bit her lip. She led him back down the hall, but into a different room this time. The furniture was just as ornate, and there was a fire in the hearth.

"What do you want?" She asked him.

And very uncharacteristically, he knew exactly what he wanted. "I want you by the fire."

So there he led her. He stood behind her and smelled the fine perfume mingling with her own unique scent. He slowly released her from the dress, enjoying every new piece of flesh exposed. He thought of his redhead a moment and wished she were there. But Angela, Ebony, Angela, this queen consumed him. He joined her nakedness and they stood before the flames with their fingers entwined and their tongues dancing. He never knew kisses could be so consuming.

And they were on the ground atop dozens of pillows. She bit at his skin, he ran his fingers over her every curve. He felt the flexing muscles and the smooth bones of her clavicle and hips, the fire dancing and sparkling along her shapely form. He parted her legs and settled between them. Her face was misted with sweat, her eyes were half closed.

"I'm Erik," he said.

She smiled broadly, "I know..."

With that he slid into her. She clenched him, slick and ready. She moaned and arched.

"You're filling," she whispered in his ear. Then she bit his neck. He growled gruffly and pound her fiercely with almost torturous slowness. She mewled from time to time and gripped his hips. On and on this went. Faces swirled through his head. Mary, Beatrice, Abigail Archer. Abigail Archer. _Christine..._

No. Angela. Oh, sweet Ebony. She dug her heels into the carpet and called out his name with such force that she clenched him to completion. It took him by surprise, the swell and shudder throughout his body. He collapsed on top of her.

And there he remained, still sheathed in her until she wiggled, giggled, and bit his neck again. He growled and climbed off of her, lying on his side and pulling her to him like a spoon.

"That mask makes you look very mysterious," she whispered.

He breathed in deeply, ran his nose along her neck, and let out the air with tight lips. "Is that a good thing?"

He felt her hips wiggle, "I have a weakness for mystery and handsome, well-endowed men."

The feeling of her fleshy rear pressing against his member stirred it to stiffness again. He ran a hand along her front, squeezing a nipple until she squeaked. He lifted her leg and slid into her once again. Somewhere in the distance, perhaps in his mind, music played along with the vocals of his midnight queen. It would be a long night, another to remember, one never to forget.


	4. Chapter 4

It was certainly morning when he left the house of ladies. The autumn sun was angled and startlingly bright. Or perhaps that was the remnants of his introduction to ale the night before.

Erik shielded his eyes away from the oppressive sun. And for a moment he longed for rain. But, after some thought, he considered the pleasure of walking home in a wrinkled suit and released tie. He smoothed a hand over his hair. He longed to take off the mask. He longed to bathe.

He also longed for breakfast; and not just any breakfast - a breakfast in bed. His bed would be strewn with pillows and scandalously-dressed women. He imagined what Mary would look like with her hair down.

The Phantom scoffed at himself. Had he become a lech? Had he fallen into a pit of lasciviousness? His head ached. He had no answer.

The Phantom knew he'd never put Mary in a compromising position. She had done him an incredible kindness, a favor for which he'd never be able to repay her. But he resolved to try. And one way was to simply _control_ himself.

Would it be so hard to control himself? He recalled stealing away in the darkness with Christine lost, trailing, attached. He possessed her. He festered over her. He stole her. But, somewhere deep within the caverns she changed. He saw something different in her. He saw someone else, another face in her eyes other than his own. And in that moment, in that painful moment, he understood that his theft was empty. She was never his and never would be.

So, the challenge: self control. To keep his hands off his maid he would simply maintain his fine white gloves, take pleasure in the subtle glances and blushes, and come to a time and place where he would be something more than her employer, that he'd be another good and trustworthy man at the pub sharing an ale and the pretty music with her. And beyond it all, he knew he could contribute to her happiness. It was simple, so simple. All he had to do was care - and not kidnap her.

He contemplated all of this with a small smile as he walked. When he finally returned home he ascended the steps. He felt his skin grow hotter. Mary and Martha would be in. Would they have worried?

Surely not. Surely not.

When he pressed open the door, however, Mary stood before him with eyes like saucers. He nearly moaned with contrition at the sad look she sported. Then she glanced away.

"Good morning..." he added. She nodded.

"Breakfast, sir?" She stood up straight.

"I believe I need to clean myself up, a bit." He blushed. "So, likely lunch at, oh... noon?" Mary nodded and turned. "Oh, wait -" He held out his hand. She looked back over her shoulder. "Thank you for the lovely evening last night." He self consciously ran a hand over his mask. "It was an enchanting performance... and I enjoyed meeting your brother as well."

She smiled broadly, "I'm very glad, sir. Thank you... And thank you for what you did...the tab..." She curtsied slightly and walked into the kitchen.

He ascended the stairs with his head high. Once in his room he stripped and stood in front of the mirror as hot water filled the bath. Do clothes make a man?

He ran two fingers over his lips. He shook his head, memories spinning of the beautiful whore with whom he'd spent the night. It was strange how different that word felt this morning. It was like it had a completely different meaning.

He sank into the hot bath. His headache had begun to subside and he felt his stomach grumble. But he was too content to get out and saunter down to the kitchen. Martha would narrow her eyes at him anyway and scoff before revealing some fabulous plate of sweets and fruit.

He closed his eyes. And as the steam settled on his face he lifted his hand out of the water. He let a finger trail its way up his chest. And then his palm rested on the mask. He smiled awkwardly and sighed. He lifted the mask away. The steam settled on the deformed bone, skin, and muscle just like it settled on the rest of him. The room felt exactly the same. He slipped further into the water until he was submerged. When he opened his eyes the light swirled and churned under the water, bubbles rising and popping. He exhaled and the water churned again. And when he ascended back into the air, he laughed. He laughed because it felt so good.

After he felt clean and fresh he dressed and descended the stairs into his office. He exchanged some phone calls and felt confident in the order of his affairs. He knew not what he'd do with his increasing profits, but that would be a thought for another day. It was strange to him how a large bag of metal could do so much. He felt like he'd be secure in the short-term, but it seemed that the United States rewarded money with more money.

At lunch he sat at the table with the newspaper while Mary laid out his meal. Salmon, fruit salad, and roasted tomatoes greeted him. His mouth watered.

Half way through the meal he returned to the news. More fires broke out in Minnesota that Friday, John Deitz surrendered his standoff Saturday, and Portugal in revolution had begun expelling clergy. The Phantom folded up the paper with his thoughts extending to Portugal. He considered what it meant to be republican, to favor a revolution like his forebears did back home. And, indeed, they had aided the revolutionaries of his new home. Would France embrace Portugal? Would the United States? What made a revolution worth assisting? In just a few days the distant country seemed reborn. Was it a new country of its people? Can a revolution of the conservatives be truly a revolution? The Phantom shook his head and thought not, distrustful of wanton nationalism and corporate fetishising. What kind of country would be born of such a quickening?

He set the paper aside and looked up at Mary, "Do you read the papers much?"

She gawked at him as she lifted the dishes. She smiled awkwardly. "Sometimes, sir." She stood up straight, seemingly unsure of whether or not to keep talking.

"What do you think of Portugal?" He hoped she'd read of it.

She shrugged. "It seems..." she paused. "It seems to have nothin' to do with workers, sir." With that she walked away.

The Phantom was puzzled. Workers? Did she mean those in Portugal or herself? He resolved not to probe further. She already seemed uncomfortable enough just talking to him. But though his newfound goal was self control, he'd begun to like talking to his maid. Just talking, he promised himself. Just talking.

But, that afternoon, he had a plan to keep to. Though it was something akin to his past obsessions, he couldn't resist investigating the mysterious Abigail Archer.

"Mary," He called as he walked through to the parlor. She looked up just coming out of the kitchen.

"Yes, sir?"

"Come in for a moment." He escorted her into the room and sat at the piano. He asked her to sit on the sofa while he thoughtlessly ran through some scales.

"What can I do for you, sir?" She asked, folding her hands awkwardly and crossing her ankles. She was very ladylike.

"Tell me more about Mrs. Archer, please." He continued the scales.

Mary paused a moment before saying, "I think my brother and th'others at the pub told you all that I know. My cousin works in her house. Dick got his job in the gardens 'cause o'her."

"Tomorrow is Sunday. I understand she serves meals on the streets." He slipped into playing a ballad, but did not sing.

"Aye, in the Lower East Side, I reckon, sir." She tilted her head as he played. "Lot's o' people who come over live there. There're the factories just a bit north, but lots of folk're still poor."

He stopped for a moment, distracted, "Where do you live, Mary?" He was puzzled that he'd never asked, nor knew. "And Martha, where does she live?"

Mary smiled, "Martha lives by me near Greenwich Village. Since my brother and sisters all got work, we moved up a little bit from the Lower East Side. We lived there while Dick and our Father worked in the factories."

The Phantom reflected upon the fact that he had little to no idea what that neighborhood was like. Indeed, he knew next to nothing about the city in general.

"Who lives in the Lower East Side?" He asked as he began to play again.

"Oh well..." She looked up at the ceiling. "Lot's o' people are from different places. There're a lot o' Jews now. Irish, Poles, Italians - there were many Germans for a while, but so many others have come in, they don't seem like a lot now."

"What's it like?" He flipped open his music to a page he'd not revised in some time and continued on. Mary paused a moment, seeming to reflect on the change in tone of his playing. It held a curious depth, a darkness that Mary had begun to adjust to.

"It's busy!" She smiled. "There are lots of people out all the time. People sell all kinds of things and food on the streets."

"Yet," The Phantom inserted, "Mrs. Archer shares food at no charge."

Mary lost her smile. "Yes..." She looked down. "People get hurt or sick and can't work. Too many people want rooms, so if you miss rent from no wages, you're out," She thrust her hand behind her, thumb extended. "People beg or die."

"This is common?"

Mary's eyebrow quirked. "Why... Yes... Sir... If you can't work, you can't buy nothin'..." She looked down. "But Mrs. Archer, she goes out and helps where she can. Sometimes... I go out to help, too."

The Phantom stopped. "You give out meals with her?"

Mary beamed unusually, "Aye, sir. I make good wages, thank you, but others don't and need help."

"I'd like to come along tomorrow." He didn't drop a note.

Mary's mouth fell open. "You?"

He stopped playing and smiled, "Am I not allowed?"

Mary blushed, "Oh, no - I mean, yes. Of course. I was just... surprised is all..."

"Why surprised?" He chafed at the idea that she wouldn't think him inclined to charity, to helping people. Why, he had picked up the tab from the night before. Surely that would indicate he felt some sort of generosity toward his fellow man.

"Well... You're not from New York, but you aren't poor, neither... So..." She smiled, "I reckon that doesn't make sense, sir. I s'ppose I was just surprised for no reason." She squeezed her hands.

"Well, that's fine. What do I have to do to contribute?" Mary took a deep breath and rattled of a plan she'd clearly formed for some time.

"If I had lots o' money, that's what I'd do." She sighed.

The Phantom nodded. "That's very good." He stood and left the parlor, Mary following him to his office.

"I want you to get a note to Mrs. Archer informing her that I will be joining her tomorrow. I trust you know where she lives." Mary nodded and the Phantom scrawled.

_Good Day_

He crumpled up the paper. Mary's eyebrows rose.

_Dear Mrs. Archer,_

_I am a stranger to this country and city. I was fortunate enough to see your performance last evening, which was very moving. My maid, Mary, whom you know, told me about your charitable nature and your common presence in the Lower East Side on Sundays. I wish to join you, offer my bread and soup to those who need it, and lend assistance where I may be of use_. _I am a novice in this vocation, so if you could share with Mary the details of this enterprise, I would be most grateful. Should it convenience you, you may telephone me at your desire_.

_Respectfully yours,_

_E.G_

He chuckled when he nearly signed, "_The Opera Ghost_." He sketched his telephone number at the bottom, blew on the ink, folded the note into an envelope, and handed it to Mary.

"You and Martha needn't concern yourself with my meals or the normal chores. This must take precedent. Find me when you return and we will set to this project." He stood and walked Mary out of his office. He slid her coat onto her himself and bid her goodbye with a slight bow.

When he retreated inside he suddenly felt lost.

_What am I doing? _He suddenly felt a fool. Was he doing this to genuinely help those who could not eat but for the kindness of some masked benefactor, or was he doing it to feel _good_ about something and to impress _her_? And which _her_?

He was suddenly terrified at having sent out a message so boldly to a beautiful stranger. Surely she would see through him. Surely she would remark upon him as a poseur. For he was. He was in every sense a poseur.

Having given himself sufficient justification to brood, he returned to his parlor and began to play and scrawl. His fingers were stained black from a slipped pen by the time Mary had returned. She practically skipped into his presence. When he turned and she saw his mood her face fell.

"Sir?" She timidly walked in.

He attempted to brighten, "Mary, my dear, are things prepared?"

Mary nodded, "Mrs. Archer told me what to do."

Erik pressed his lips together, "That's wonderful. What can I do?" He stood.

Mary blinked, unsure of how to answer. "Well... we need to buy food... bread, meat, vegetables... and we need to make the stew. We have stock still... So..." She sighed with true puzzlement... "If... well... we'll need money. I figured Martha and I would take care of the rest."

Mary figured she and Martha could do all of the work, she meant. Erik sighed and nodded. He led her out and discussed the situation with Martha. From there, the two women set to making the plan a reality. All he could do was throw money at them. That was all he could do.

"Does money make a rich man, Mary?" He asked as she was set to go.

She blinked again, then smiled softly, having begun to understand the odd nature of his moods. "I don't know much about bein' rich, sir." She gave him a true smile then and closed the door behind her.


End file.
